


Shaken Apart By You

by ryssabeth



Series: Situational Irony [7]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Grief, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-09
Updated: 2013-04-09
Packaged: 2017-12-08 01:04:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/755178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryssabeth/pseuds/ryssabeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras' fingers are laced behind his head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shaken Apart By You

**Author's Note:**

> [Victoria's art](http://jen-suis.tumblr.com/post/45399390694/it-moves-its-all-ryssas-fault-okay-because-i) inspired a short fic, so.

Enjolras fingers are laced behind his head.

( _These are Grantaire’s books._ )

They are laced behind his head, his curls threaded through them, and he’s crouched beside the newly packed dirt where Grantaire now lives, eight-point-three feet under the ground in a box that was far too expensive, he’d say, and that Marius shouldn’t have bothered with it.

( _They look lonely in the cardboard box._ )

The fingers laced behind his head come undone instead, and his arms bring newly curled fists to his eyes, where the dirt and the grass swim into a blend of brown and green.

( _And these are Grantaire’s clothes._ )

His shoulders start to shake—and so, too, does the rest of him, trembling from the tips of his hair to the corners where his elbows bend to the soles of his feet. He shakes, rattling apart. He shakes, and pieces of him fall onto the ground.

Enjolras shakes, and arms wrap around him.

Arms that are not there.

( _Enjolras wants to wear them, but if he does, they’ll stop smelling like him. And so he packs those away too._ )

A sob claws its way up his throat, pulling the air out of his lungs with greedy hands, forcing it up and out in a miserable, tinny whine. _“_ Grantaire,” he says—but doesn’t say, because it’s barely a name and more a sound.

( _“Right here_.”)

“No,” Enjolras says. And that’s not a word either. “You’re not.”

( _“Sure I am. And right here is where I’ll always be.”_ )

 _In the ground?_ He presses his fists against his closed eyes. _In this cemetery?_

( _“With you.”_ )

Enjolras doesn’t have any more not-words in him. He’s got pathetic whines and angry gurgles and things that don’t make any sense.

And he’s got the ghost of a dead man, shushing into his hair, and arms that don’t exist attached to a body that’s buried below him, curled around him like a shield.

( _He tapes the box with more than necessary, keeping the memories vacuum sealed._ )

_“I’m right here.”_

This time, Enjolras doesn’t protest.

He’s lost the breath for that, too.


End file.
